


The Language of Lovers

by CaptainSaku



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Post-DA II timeline, Post-Inquisition timeline, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSaku/pseuds/CaptainSaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rare is the occasion when they would admit they are in love. The worst of their lives is over (they hope) and they can finally settle down. A glimpse into a morning in the Hawke-Arainai Estate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> I love getting prompts, and this resulted from one of those. Thank you pandapeza over at Tumblr for sending it! The prompt list was titled "The way you said I love you" and the prompt in question was "With a hoarse voice, under the blankets"

Words don’t come easy to them. Words and feelings are things that they are both bad at, perhaps even terrible at. They are things that they avoid, things that they keep to themselves. A carefully constructed wall protects them from what might be, what might happen, and their own demons don’t seem that terrible when they’re on the other side.

How funny, how absolutely incredible, that this is where they would end up. In the intimacy of their room– _their_  room,–the protective wall crumbles and falls. And yet… yet. Yet words still don’t come easy to them, not even now, not even in the warm quiet of the morning’s first light. 

She’d woken up to a single red poppy left on the bedside table, standing tall and proud in its simple glass vase. He’d watched her sit up, blinking blearily at her favorite flower; watched as the pristine white sheets slid from her bare body and the gentle sunlight kissed her olive skin.

She’s beautiful. She was always beautiful. She will never stop being beautiful. Not to him, at least.

Words may not come easy to them, but they say that a picture is worth a thousand words, and if that is so, then actions are worth tenfold.

He was never much the religious sort, but he does enjoy worshiping  _her._  Deft fingers trace playfully over soft skin, mapping a landscape they know backwards: the landscape of her body. He has memorized her curves, brushed his fingers over the jut of her hips, felt the lean strength of her muscles, reveled in the perfect roundness of her breasts. He has kissed her every scar, and he will never cease to be amazed by her beauty.

She was always the competitive type, and she will not fall behind in this discipline either. She takes as much as she gives, fierce and passionate and bright, with a laugh on her lips every time her touch elicits a deep groan from the depths of his chest. She loves to love him and to be loved by him, an explosive duo that has no equal in bed. 

Together they have created a language that has no need for words. It is the language of lovers that openly express their feelings only sparingly, only when the time is just right, only when the situation merits it. They share a bed, a home, a  _life_  together, and if that is not an expression of love, then they don’t know what is.

Strong fingers knot in golden locks of hair as she gasps, his name a hoarse half-moan on her lips, and he _knows_. Oh, he knows; he knows that that is her way of saying _I love you_ , in the way she says his name like a prayer, in the way she trusts him to do right by her and gives herself entirely to him. It’s a profession of love much like his own, when he kisses her fiercely, passionately, all teeth and tongue and the tacit shared knowledge that there will never be another like them.

 _“Ti amo, carina.”_ The words are no more than a husky whisper in her ear, followed by a low, guttural grunt. She will never admit it, but she loves it when he says that. Her world narrows to a pinpoint; there is only him: his smell, his warmth, his weight on her body. _Him_ , on top of her, all around her, _inside_ her. Her nails dig into his copper skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his back. With a final thrust, she’s driven over the edge.

They aren’t good at words, and perhaps they never will be. But sometimes, only sometimes, the words _I love you_ are all they want to say and hear. They are rare, but that’s what makes them precious, and they will treasure them now and always.


End file.
